


i live among you, well disguised

by ceserabeau



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8396965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: “What are you?” Derek whispers. Stiles smiles, tilts his head. “Are you sure you want to know?”





	

He knows from a young age.

His mother tells him stories as she tucks him in at night. How Thiazi kidnapped the goddess Idun. How the dwarves of Svartalfheim made Thor’s hammer. How Asgard was fortified against the giants.

“They’re not stories, are they?” he asks.

His mother kisses his forehead. “They’re your story,” she says. “What you are and were, and what you will be.”

His father, a giant of a man, smiles down at him. “You have to be careful,” he says. “They won’t understand. Only if they’re like us.”

“How will I know?”

“You’ll know,” his father says. He looks at his wife, eyes gentle and fond. “Trust me, you’ll know.”

At school, the kids like the stories he tells, the games he knows how to play. “ _Hveðrungr_ ,” they say; “What kind of name is that?”

He grins, all teeth. “Call me Stiles,” he says.

 

 

When he’s thirteen, his mother starts to fade away.

“These bodies aren’t made to hold things like us,” she tells him in the hospital, pale skin against pale sheets. “Don’t cry. It’s not the end.”

“It is,” Stiles sobs out. “You’re _dying_.”

“No, darling.” She touches his shoulder, his face; her hand is so very cold. “The end is the beginning. Everything goes around and around, a snake holding its tail.  Don’t ever forget that.”

Everything seems duller when she finally closes her eyes and slips away. “She’s in Valhalla,” his father says, and places a heavy hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

He yells, screams, fights when his father pulls him close. He wants her here with him, with them, not somewhere so far away, unreachable. Too many times have they been torn apart and it hurts only the way love can.

His body is so young, so fresh, so _human_ , but his soul is an old and battered thing. If this is what it means to be a god, he doesn’t want to be one any more.

 

 

Werewolves aren’t that much of a jump, Stiles thinks when Scott lifts his shirt to shows him the bite, huge and raw on his side. If serpents encircle the world and gods walk among men, how many more things are out there that go bump in the night?

“It’s so weird,” Scott says, when they’re in the woods, still looking for a body. “I can hear all these little things. I can smell _everything_.” He turns to fix Stiles with a sharp look. “And you – you smell –”

Stiles tenses: _they won’t understand_ , his father said. “I smell what?”

Scott tilts his head, inhales, exhales. “You smell different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know,” Scott says, and Stiles’ heart trips with panic in his chest.

Later, in the safety of his house, his father downstairs, he presses a book of Norse mythology into Scott’s hands.

“This is why I smell different.”

Scott doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just flicks slowly through until he gets to the right page and stares at the picture there. When he looks up again, it’s like he’s seeing Stiles for the first time.

“This explains so much.”

Stiles feels sheepish, the way he used to when his mother scolded him for toying with the neighbourhood kids, making them dance to his tune. “You okay with it?”

Scott’s face does something complicated: surprise, anger, fondness. “Come on,” he says, and closes the book with a snap. He holds it out with steady hands. “You’re my best friend. So what if I’m a werewolf and you’re a god.”

Stiles laughs, takes the book. Out in the woods a wolf howls.

 

 

His father was right: _you’ll know_ , and Stiles does, he can feel it like a punch to the gut, everything electric at the sight of broad shoulders and a deep frown.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks as the wolf walks away from them in the forest.

“I know him,” Stiles says, and tries not to have a panic attack. It feels like his heart’s going to beat out of his chest.

“Yeah, dude.” Scott kicks the leaves. “He’s Derek Hale.”

“No,” Stiles says. “I _know_ him.”

He doesn’t have the words to explain it. It feels like he’s drowning, caught in a wave he’s helpless to fight. It’s in his blood, bone deep: the thing that faltered in him when his mother died stirring again, reaching out desperately.

His whole body is alive and it’s singing: _mine, mine, mine_.

 

 

The man is a wolf and the wolf is a man. The wolf recognises him, likes him, but the man – Derek _hates_ him from the moment he sees him.

He likes to act like he’s tough, dangerous; wraps himself in leather jackets and sharp words. He likes to intimidate Stiles, like to glare at him from the tree line or stalk him in his car.

He especially likes breaking into Stiles’ room to scare the shit out of him.

“You say one word –” he hisses as he shoves Stiles against the wall.

Stiles grimaces, opens his mouth to snap back, but Derek’s hands are already loosening, pressing against his shirt instead. Stiles knows what he can feel: the crackle of power, thrumming under his skin with the feeling of his wolf so close.

He doesn’t mean to but his hand is already reaching out for Derek’s face before he can think better of it. Derek shudders at the contact, tilting up into Stiles palm like he can’t help himself. His face is so confused, so overwhelmed – by Stiles or by himself, it’s impossible to tell.

It’s too soon, Stiles decides; he’s not ready yet. He lets his words spill out, uses them to push Derek away.

“It’s not polite to abuse people in their own home. So back off. If I’m harbouring your fugitive ass, it’s my house my rules, buddy.”

He keeps an eye on Derek as he and Danny solve the mystery text. His confusion is enough to keep him semi-docile until Derek’s climbing back out of his window and Stiles has to go back to his non-werewolf homework.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?” When he looks up, Derek has paused halfway out the window. “What is it, sourwolf?”

Derek’s mouth opens, closes. Eventually he frowns. “Don’t call me that.”

 _Mine_ , Stiles thinks, and grins.

Derek just growls as he jumps out the window.

 

 

The Alpha is a trickster, Stiles realises early on. He twists and turns, messes with their minds, pits them against each other and sits back to watch the fireworks. It’d be fascinating if it wasn’t so annoying.

But Stiles is _the_ trickster; he knows how to play the game that Peter’s trapped them in and he knows how to win.

He paints a picture: weak, defenceless Stiles, with his big eyes and sweaty palms, his rapid rabbit heartbeat, and waits for Peter to reel him in.

“If I do this,” he says in the dark of the garage, “You have to promise to leave Scott and Derek out of it.”

Peter bares his teeth. “Do you know why wolves hunt in packs?” he asks, voice dripping condescension. “Because their prey is too large to bring down alone. I need Scott _and_ Derek. Both of them.”

Stiles fights back a snarl. The thought of Peter twisting Derek up in his anger even more makes his fists curl around the laptop. He feels like a livewire, electric, about to explode.

 _Mine_.

He tries not to tear Peter’s throat out then and there. Once Derek finds out about Laura, he’ll do it himself.

 

 

“I like you, Stiles,” Peter says later, still oblivious to how he’s digging his own grave. “Since you’ve helped me, I’m going to give you something in return. Do you want the bite?”

Stiles bites back his laugh. He doesn’t need the bite, doesn’t need Peter’s power, doesn’t need to be an equal to anyone. He’s older and stronger than Peter Hale, than wolves themselves; he helped to create this world, gave life to these creatures.

“No thanks.”

Peter face twists. “Are you sure about that?”

He’s as fast as Stiles remembers, quick enough to get his mouth against Stiles’ wrist before Stiles can exhale.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he says and leans in for the kill.

His power is at the surface, demanding, and Stiles lets it rise, crescendo over him. He’s played Peter’s little games long enough. He twists his hands into Peter’s shirt, right over the thump-thump-thump of his heart, and lets his power crackle and jump so that Peter twists away with a hiss, eyes wide and surprised.

“What was _that_?”

The thing that lives under his skin rises to the surface and pulls his mouth into a sneer. “You got what you wanted. Go find Derek. Leave me alone.”

Peter’s eyes narrow; Stiles can tell he’s thinking about what to do: turn him, kill him, who even knows with this psychopath. But in the end he just shakes his head and leaves Stiles there, every part of him baying for his blood.

 

 

The air smells like smoke and fire, like burnt flesh, acrid. This was what it smelt like when the Hales burnt, Stiles thinks, and he wants to tear something apart.

He won’t have to though: Derek’s stalking across the clearing, full of purpose. It echoes in Stiles’ chest: the burning anger, the seething hatred, like a wild animal clawing its way out to get what it wants, and it wants Peter’s blood. It draws him closer even as Jackson hisses at him to _stay fucking still Stilinski_.

He knows what’s coming, they all do, as Derek looms over Peter. His face is so blank, almost unseeing, and Stiles knows he’s thinking of Laura, his uncle’s claws in her, ripping her to pieces.

“You’ve already decided,” Peter grits out as Stiles approaches. “I can smell it on you.”

Derek’s lips pull back in a snarl. Up goes his hand, claws extended and gleaming in the moonlight, but at the top of the swing he hesitates.

“That’s right, Derek,” Peter croaks. He laughs, a bitter twisted sound. “You can’t do it. I’m all you’ve got left.”

Derek’s shaking, faltering. Stiles steps in close enough to touch his shoulder; he pushes back through the connection: _he’s not, you’ve got me, you’ve got us, you’re mine, I’m yours_.

Derek’s head twists towards Stiles and Peter’s gaze follows. His eyes are so wide and panicked, disbelieving, that Stiles knows he’s seeing him as he really is: human and inhuman, new and old, bursting out of his body because flesh and bones can’t contain something like him.

“Do it,” he says, and Derek’s claws come down.

 

 

It’s over. Peter’s dead, Kate’s dead, the hunters are gone, everyone’s _safe_.

It’s over, but Stiles can’t stop his hands from shaking.

He sits in the dark of his room and tries to remember how to breathe. The moon is bright through the window but in the shadows he can still see Peter’s monstrous shape, his claws, his fangs, coming for him.

He’s so trapped in the images his mind provides – Peter biting Scott, Peter biting Lydia, Peter tearing Laura open, Peter ripping out Kate’s throat – that he doesn’t notice Derek’s in the room with him.

“Hey,” he says, and lays a hand on Stiles’ arm. “You okay?”

Stiles stares at him, surprised. He didn’t think Derek would want to see him, seeing as how Stiles told him to rip his only living relative’s throat out not two hours ago.

“What are you doing here?”

“You – ” Derek blinks at him owlishly. He seems surprised himself, confused by his own actions. “You _called_ me.”

Stiles glances at his phone, still on the nightstand. He doesn’t remember – _oh_ , he thinks, looking at Derek’s face, not that type of calling. Something different, deeper and instinctual, reaching out for what he wants. For what’s his.

“Sorry, I didn’t – well, I didn’t mean to, but I guess I did, you know? It’s hard to tell. I’m not really in control of it half the time so –”

“ _Stiles_.” Derek’s claws dig into his arm. “What did you do to me? Why do I – why do I feel like this? I can’t – I want –” His eyes flash Alpha red. “What did you _do_?”

For a second, Stiles consider lying. But his father said he’d know and he _knows_. “You’re mine.”

“What?”

“You’re mine. My wolf.” It’s so easy to stand, to draw himself close to Derek. He waits for Derek to back away but he stands his ground. “I made you. So long ago. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Derek stares at him; there’s a flicker of fear in his face but all Stiles can feel is determination, trust, understanding. In front of him, Derek takes a shaky breath.

“What are you?” he whispers.

Stiles smiles, tilts his head. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Derek steps even closer so that they’re pressed together, chest to hip, and he touches Stiles’ face, his hair, comes to rest on his neck.

“What are you?”

Stiles shows him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Leonard Cohen's _Nevermind_. Hveðrungr is another name for Loki


End file.
